


Noble's the Wrong Word

by combeferre_writer01



Series: The Witcher Stories [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jaskier Whump, Jaskier's dad is abusive, Jaskier's friends with the slaves though, Violence, he also keeps slaves, noble!Jaskier, worried jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combeferre_writer01/pseuds/combeferre_writer01
Summary: Request: Geralt finds out that Jaskier is of noble birth when his parents hire someone to forcibly return Jaskier to them and Geralt misunderstands what happened.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher Stories [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599160
Comments: 23
Kudos: 202





	1. Noble's the Wrong Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCollector/gifts).



> I misread the comment and missed that they knew each other before... Geralt kind of plays the role of a bounty hunter in this one. Sorry for the mistake, but I hope this is still enjoyable.

By looks, this “bard” was the nobleman’s son he was looking for. By personality, the given description couldn't have been more wrong. Geralt let the boy-- young man, really-- finish his song before going to him.

“Is your name Julian?” Geralt asked. 

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, good sit. They call me Jaskier.” He bowed. 

Geralt took hold of the young man’s collar and dragged him from the tavern, only one or two patrons sparing a glance before going back to their drinks. 

“Ay!” Jaskier tried to free himself from the man’s hold, but it was in vain. “Who the hell are you?” 

“Your parents hired me to bring you back to them.”

Jaskier began struggling harder. “No, no, no, no, no. Let go!” He reached back and tried prying Geralt’s fingers from his collar but he wouldn’t weaken his grip. “Please, don’t do this.” 

Geralt stopped walking and turned to face the younger man. “Stop flailing, or I will bind you to the saddle.”

“You ass!” Jaskier tried pushing the man but he didn’t budge. “I’m not going back. Release me!” 

As Geralt promised, once they reached Roach, Geralt withdrew a piece of rope from the saddlebag with the hand not holding Jaskier’s collar. The panicked young man struggled all the harder know the second that rope got around even one of his wrists, he’d be done for. What he hadn’t expected, was Geralt lifting him onto the horse before tying his wrists to the pommel of the saddle. 

Jaskier lowered his voice but the Witcher still heard him. “No, no, no. Wake up, Jask, wake up.” No matter how he twisted- or tried to- his hands or stretched his nimble fingers, he couldn’t reach the knots.

Geralt walked beside the horse, guiding her with the reigns. 

“You don’t understand,” Jaskier begged. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I don’t need to understand. I was paid to bring you back, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Jaskier never stopped trying to free himself from the rope. He ignored how red and raw his wrists got. It didn’t take long for a line of thin beads of blood to appear.

* * *

Come nightfall, Geralt let Jaskier down from Roach and gave him food. Know the bard would run if, given the chance, his hands stayed bound. And, as predicted, the younger man had tried to get away. In as little as six strides, Geralt caught the rope between Jaskier’s wrists and dragged him to a young tree strong enough to withstand the fool’s nonstop wriggling. 

“Damn you! Just let me leave.” He stumbled over a rock and hardly had the time to catch himself. 

Geralt tied Jaskier’s hands to the tree and sat a foot or so across from him. “Why are you fighting so hard?” 

“It won’t happen again.” Jaskier’s mutter was more to himself than to Geralt. “It won’t.” The young man tugged on his bounds again, hissing when a new line of blood trickled from under the rope. “Silver hair, fiery eyes… You’re Geralt of Rivia, aren’t you?” 

“I am.”

“Fuck.” No matter what he tried to do, Geralt would thwart him without breaking a sweat. He already proved that. 

“What won’t happen again?” 

“Why do you care? Do you not only care for money?” Jaskier tugged again, though it seemed an empty-minded action. 

“Just answer the question, Bard.”

Jaskier heaved a sigh. “My father abuses me. He married off my sister to a kind man but he won’t allow me to leave because he can’t beat my dead mother. I’ve escaped three times and you’re the third bounty hunter.” 

Geralt clenched his eyes shut. He just had to go asking questions, didn’t he? He reached out and undid the rope from around Jaskier’s wrists and the younger instantly started rubbing his wrists. “I won’t bring you back.”

“What?” Jaskier looked up at the Witcher. 

“I won’t bring you back.”

Jaskier looked at the stars and released another deep, low sigh. His father would hire someone else if Geralt just didn’t return. Geralt was firm but he didn’t beat him like the bounty hunter before did.

“Fuck it. I won’t resist anymore. You have my word. Bring me back, get your payment, and we may meet again should I somehow manage another escape.”

* * *

The closer to the plantation house the pair got, the more antsy Jaskier became. His steps became slower, his hands fidgeted. They got the edge of the property by mid-afternoon of day three and Jaskier’s legs began to shake. He didn’t know yet what awaited him and he didn’t wish to learn.

The bard’s steps became slow and small. Geralt took hold on his elbow and stopped him, turning to stand in front of him. “You can turn around right now. I’ll tell him I couldn’t find you, and join you on the road with Roach in a moment.” 

“They’d find someone else to hunt me down.” 

“You’re not safe here?”

“No.” 

They kept walking and a few yards from the house, a slave ran into the house and barely two moments later a tall man stormed from the house with a velvet pouch in hand. He tossed it to Geralt as he took a handful of Jaskier’s hair. The bard waved over his shoulder as he was dragged into the house. 

Geralt turned to leave but paused and looked over his shoulder when the door slamming was followed by a yell from Jaskier. He shook his head and went back to Roach.

* * *

“Where did you go this time?” Jaskier’s father demanded, pushing him down the stairs to the root cellar. Jaskier was quick to cover his head with his arms when his foot missed the first step and he fell the rest of the way down. The taller man pulled him up by his yellow hair and the younger cried out again. “Where did you go?”

“A few towns over.” Jaskier’s struggling was renewed when his head stopped pulsating enough that he could notice Milcan was pulling him to the centre support post. 

Everyone on the property knew the centre post of the root cellar was the whipping post. A disobedient slave would be hauled down, cuffed to the post, whipped until Milcan got bored, and left to die. Or, if the slave was lucky, Jaskier would somehow manage to get the key to the shackles and free him.

“Father, please-” Jaskier’s words were cut off by Milcan grabbing the back of Jaskier’s head and slamming his head against the post. With Jaskier disoriented and brought to his knees by the blow, he was easily cuffed to the post and didn’t come back to reality until he yelled again when his father snapped his left forefinger. 

The next pain was a slow, searing hot sting caused by a dagger going down his back as Milcan cut the back of his shirt open. He did, though, manage to keep any outcries to a moan. The man took a whip from where it rested on a barrel of potatoes. “How many towns did you cross through?” He flicked his wrist to get a cracking sound when Jaskier didn’t answer right away.

“Five!” he yelped. 

Milcan held the whip against his side with his arm and walked closer to his son, grasping his left hand around the fingers so he couldn’t make a fist. 

“No, no, no, no, no.” In vain, Jaskier tried pulling his arms away but the base of his hands met cold iron. He didn’t even try to hold in his sounds of pain as the man broke the last four fingers on his left hand before breaking his right forefinger. 

“Do you know how much finding your sorry ass has cost me over the last two years?”

Surely it couldn’t be that much; he’d only managed escapes thrice now. 

“600 gold in all. 600. You can get a good slave for that much. And what’s done to slaves who try to leave?” The whip licked but didn’t hurt Jaskier. “They get whipped and I cut the back of their heel so they can’t run again.”

The whip cracked again and Jaskier did scream this time as it tore tiny cuts in his upper back and shoulders. The whip was brought down another three times before the monster relented. 

“You don’t even do half as much work as an old slave.” Again. “You eat  _ my _ food,” again, “and don’t even bother to thank me.” 

Jaskier sobbed, his head hanging between his arms. He didn’t try to keep his voice down. He only wished he’d gone with Geralt. At least there would have been more time before this. 

The whip cracked and a whimper tore through Jaskier’s throat before he even knew it was coming. Milcan laughed and Jaskier flinched at the harsh sound, the action sending a wave of pain down his back. 

Another ten times, in quick succession, the damned whip struck Jaskier’s back. He lost consciousness after the fifth.

* * *

A bone-skinny man in ragged clothes and no shoes came stumbling into the potion ship Geralt was standing in. The Witcher caught the middle-aged man before he fell. 

“Are you- Your hair...you must be Geralt of Rivia.” 

“Who are you?” Geralt inquired. 

“Hornic, they call me. Please, good Witcher. It was you who returned Master Jaskier home. His screams have stopped and we fear with all our souls for his health for we know his safety is none at all.”

“We’ll ride to him. Come now.” Geralt assisted the man out of the potion shop and helped him onto Roach before mounting the steed behind him. He then steered Roach back to the house he’d ridden from not three days ago.


	2. Humble: "having or showing a modest or low estimate of one's own importance."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt comes to rescue Jaskier from what he himself returned the bard to and slays another monster in the process.

Whether Jaskier felt more pain or more fear was a choice for the gods to make. His back and shoulders, fingers, and his head… He wished with everything in him that he’d be able to play his lute again soon. 

Weakly, Jaskier shook his head when Milcan took a vice grip worthy hold on his now bare left foot. If this happened, if his Achilles tendon was slit, any hope of his dream would die. He could retrain his fingers over the neck of his lute, his back would heal, but his Achilles tendon being slit would stop him from travelling far distances.

* * *

Geralt jumped from Roach’s back while the horse was in mid-gallop and sprinted for the door. “Is there no key?” he yelled to the two slaves. Neither spoke.

Taking a step back, the Witcher lifted his foot and kicked the door as hard as he could, splinters of wood flying from around the handle as it was forced through the door frame. 

On the way back to the house, Hornic had told Geralt where Milcan had been keeping Jaskier and painted a verbal picture of how to get there once in the house. He didn’t bother trying the doorknob before kicking the door in. He rounded down the stairs and tackled Milcan away from Jaskier.

Not having anything in hand to render the man unconscious with, Geralt took a handful of the man’s blond hair and slammed his head against the packed dirt floor twice to him limp. 

What was the bard’s name? Fuck. Jas… Fuck.

“Dandelion?” Geralt called as he a small ring of keys from an inside pocket of Milcan’s jacket. He studied the lock for a moment and found the matching key. “Dandelion?” Geralt tried again as he freed Jaskier from the chains.

Jaskier jolted back, flinching with a squeal at the pain flaring down his back. “No, no, no. Stop.” Jaskier tried pulling away again, the movement causing a whimper. 

“Hornic!” Geralt called over his shoulder. 

Running steps came from the floor above and Hornic came running down the stairs. “Yes, good sir?” The man was talented at keeping the worried panic from his voice.

“Take him upstairs,” Geralt instructed. “I’ll follow.” 

Once Jaskier and Hornic were up the stairs, Geralt cuffed Milcan to the post he’d just freed Jaskier from. Geralt joined the two upstairs and Jaskier was already laid on a pile of blankets in the parlour near the fireplace where water was being warmed. 

“What can I-”

“We can for Master Jaskier,” a young woman said. She couldn’t have been older than 18. Though her body was all but skin and bones, her face held the slight pudge of late youth. 

The Witcher scrutinized Jaskier. He didn’t doubt the poor thralls knew how to treat the wounds left by a whip, but something told him they didn’t know how to set broken fingers. 

“Can I set his fingers? It has to be done soon if he is to use them again.” 

“You know how?” Hornic looked up from the cloth he was preparing for bandages. 

“I’ve set my own.”

Hornic nodded and motioned for Geralt to move closer and do his work. Jaskier flinched when Geralt knelt down in front of him. 

“I’ve got to set your fingers, Dandelion. It’s going to hurt, but it’s got to be done if you want to play your lute again.” 

Jaskier swallowed thickly. “Do it,” he croaked with a nod. 

Geralt took Jaskier’s calloused hand in his own and got a feel for the younger man’s hand. He massaged the palm and back of his hand with the pads of his fingers to relax the muscles. Without a word, Geralt snapped Jaskier’s forefinger back into place and the man moaned in pain.

“There’s one.” 

“Fuck.” 

Geralt quickly snapped the next finger back in place and Jaskier slammed his face into the pillow under his head to muffle his scream. The Witcher patted the back of Jaskier’s head. 

“Keep your head up. You’ll pass out trying to inhale your pillow.” 

Jaskier moaned again, more out of annoyance than pain, but obeyed nonetheless. “That doesn’t sound too bad right now.” 

Geralt shook his head and set the third finger. He was impressed when Jaskier bit back a scream, biting his bottom lip instead.

“Do you need bandages for his hands, Witcher?” the young woman asked. 

“I will, yes. Thin strips.” Geralt set Jaskier’s pinky, the last finger to be set on that hand.

“You mentioned my lute. I’ll be able to play again?”

“In a few weeks.” Geralt took the strips of cloth of the girl and firmly tied Jaskier’s fingers together at the bases, middle knuckles, and the knuckles of the ring and forefinger to stabilize the knuckle of the middle finger.

“Do you want to rest a bit before I set the other hand?”

“No. Get it over with, please.” Jaskier’s voice wobbled slightly as he spoke. Suddenly, his back arches and he hissed as a damp, warm cloth was placed on his back.

“Sorry.” Hornic’s eyes showed how sheepish he felt. 

“Breathe before I set your other hand.” Geralt awkwardly patted Jaskier’s forearm. He didn’t have the slightest idea as to how to comfort someone. 

“Where is he?” Jaskier choked out. Tears were welling up in his eyes. 

“I chained him to the post. You’re all safe.” Geralt tightened the knot in the leather strip holding his head out of his face. 

Jaskier nodded but said nothing more. He took a deep breath before releasing it. Hornic changed the cloth, Jaskier taking a shuddering breath as it was peeled from his wounded back. 

“Ready?” Geralt checked. Jaskier held his hand out and Geralt took it, massaging the back of his hand again. 

“One, two-”  _ Snap! _

Jaskier groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to clench his other hand into a fist. 

“One more finger, Jaskier.” The girl ran a hand through Jaskier’s hair in an attempt to calm him. “The kindly Witcher is almost done.” 

With Jaskier distracted, Geralt set the last finger and the younger man grunted at the pain but nothing else. Geralt nodded in thanks to the slave girl who offered a small smile in response. 

“Water, Jaskier?”

“Gods, please.” 

So he wouldn’t get sick, the girl helped Jaskier drink a small amount from a ladle. When the wounded man was done, she put it back in the wooden pale of water. 

“Thank you, Lilcopen.” 

_ Lilcopen. So that’s her name. _ Geralt thought, studying her. 

“How long will you be staying, Mr. Witcher?” Lilcopen asked.

Geralt looked around the vast parlour. The nest of blankets around Jaskier was the only thing out of place. Jaskier’s breathing was a little laboured. He’d fallen asleep now and Lilcopen was thankful for it. The young man couldn’t have slept well the past two nights. 

“Until my help is no longer wanted or needed.” Geralt silently stood. “I may have some healing herbs, if not a potion, in my saddlebag.” 

He left the house and approached Roach. The horse knocked her head against her rider’s chest and the white-haired man hummed, patting the horse’s neck. 

“Thanks, Roach.”

Geralt gathered his own healing supplies from the saddlebag and went back inside. 

“I have an ointment that’ll help his back to heal faster.” He held the jar out to Hornic. 

“Will it help his wrists?” Lilcopen was cleaning the chafed and raw flesh of Jaskier’s narrow wrists. 

“Where’s there’s broken skin, yes.” Geralt also revealed a small, glass vial of red liquid. “When he wakes, one of us can help him drink this and it’ll lessen his pain.”

“Unchain me! You hear me, you bastards?” Milcan bellowed from the root cellar. 

The slaves stiffened but Geralt shook his head and grabbed his sword and handed Lilcopen his medicine kit before going down the stairs. He closed the door behind him. 

“I already paid you,  _ beast _ .” Milcan snarled. 

“It’s not wise to insult the one who decides your fate.” Geralt walked to the man and crouched down so they were at eye level with each other. 

“What do you want?”

“Nothing for myself. As you said: I’ve already been paid.” Geralt drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “You’re going to let the two slaves upstairs go free. They live their lives as they please and never see you again. Your son is also free to do what he wants with his life.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I kill you and they go free.” 

Milcan let out a barking laugh. “You wouldn’t kill a man. I’ve heard it’s against your code.”

“I’ve killed greater monsters than you for less. Write their freedom papers or I will kill you and your boy would let them go.”

“This property-” Milcan stopped speaking when Geralt growled. 

“I don’t give a damn about the fucking property. You can learn something about the word ‘humble’ and the fields with your own hands. I’m not saying this again. Free them, or your head will be removed from your shoulders.”

* * *

When Jaskier woke up again, Geralt was sitting in a chair he brought in from the dining room and was cleaning his sword in the candlelight. Lilcopen was sleeping beside Jaskier, wrapped up in Geralt’s cloak. Hornic was dozing on the sofa. 

Jaskier tried pushing himself up but stopped with a wheezing gasp when the skin of his back twinged painfully. 

“You want to be careful, Dandelion.” Geralt’s voice was low and deep. “Your back’s finally scabbing.” 

“Dandelion?” Jaskier’s brow furrowed now that he was awake enough to understand the name. 

“I can’t remember your name.”

Jaskier chuckled at the Witcher’s bluntness. “Jaskier.”

Geralt looked up from his sword, the sun meeting the sea as they made contact. “You look like a dandelion.” 

“Thank you?” Jaskier folded his arms and pillowed his head on them, still looking at Geralt. “Slay another monster?” 

“Something like that.” 

“You must tell me stories of your adventures, Witcher. I can write ballads of your great deeds. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.” Jaskier had a far off look in his eyes.

Geralt cleared his throat. “I travel alone, bard.”

“Of course you do. Firstly, I’ll write a song about how you saved my life. Consider it a thank you, if you will.” 

“Get some more rest.” Geralt didn’t hide the amusement from his voice. 

It hardly took a minute for Jaskier to fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were I to post WIPs for Man of Steel (Clark Kent x OFC) and/or The Tudors (Charles Brandon x OFC), how many of you would be interested in reading them?


	3. The Last Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's on the mend so they set off on their new journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely did not mean to leave this fic untouched for so long. Exams came along, then depression hit, things got better, my girlfriend and I broke up, depression hit, things got better, someone commented asking if I was posting again, and here we are. I have ideas for more content. And fair warning, this chapter wasn't proofread because my ADD/ADHD was not having it. 
> 
> Give a sound off in the comments if you're interested in a Jaskier/Geralt shipping.

Geralt was going to leave in the morning when he was sure Jaskier’s back wasn’t going to become infected. He was up with the sun and began packing Roach’s saddle bags. It didn’t occur to him that Horic and Lilcopen would wake with the sun as well. 

“Master Witcher?” Lilcopen’s voice was slowed with sleep. “Are you to leave?” 

“Jaskier’s in good hands. There’s nothing else I can do for him other than dispose of his father’s corpse.” Geralt shouldered his bag of healing supplies. “There are a couple of potions for him by the fireplace.” 

Horic and Lilcopen shared a look and Geralt would have needed to be blind to miss it. “What?” 

“Would you consider bringing him with you?” Horic asked slowly. 

Geralt cocked his head before shaking it. “It’s too dangerous. My Path isn’t an easy one. It would be too treacherous for him if he wasn’t recovering from injuries.” 

Lilcopen’s eyes darted between the two men. “May I talk freely, Master Witcher?” 

“You’re free.” 

“Take him with you. Master Jaskier would be safer with you. He’s never been one to stay in one place for long. Even with his hands all wrapped he’d try to make his way through the world.”

“I’m not a caretaker.” Geralt grunted. 

“Then why did you stay the night?” Lilcopen countered. “How gentle you are with your horse. There’s more love in your heart than you’re willing to let out. You and Master Jaskier could help each other more than you could imagine.” 

Geralt looked at Jaskier’s peacefully sleeping face and sighed. He placed the bag of healing supplies back on the floor and headed to the basement. 

“What’s your decision?” Horic asked after him. 

“His back should be scabbed enough for riding a horse in two days.”

* * *

Jaskier woke in the mid-morning and was shocked to see Geralt was still there. Lilcopen was boiling more water but Horic was nowhere to be seen. He rubbed his eyes with the insides of his wrists, where his thumbs met his wrists. 

“You’re still here,” Jaskier addressed Geralt. 

“Your friends are persuasive,” the Witcher hummed. 

“What does that mean?” Jaskier moved to sit up but stopped at the now familiar twinge in his back. 

“Another day before sitting up,” Lilcopen said gently. 

Jaskier bit back a groan of annoyance. This was going to be a long day. He couldn’t use his hands, he couldn’t walk around. 

“You can… You can come with me, if you so choose.” Geralt’s words were slow and hesitant as though he himself couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth. 

Jaskier looked Geralt in the eyes. “Why would you offer me this?” 

Geralt breathed in deeply and slowly released it, contemplating how to answer. “You’d try to make it on your own with or without help. You’d get yourself killed. You’ll travel with me until your hands are able to process your lute again.” 

“I still owe you that song,” Jaskier noted. 

The sound from Geralt was somewhere between a hum and a scoff. “You owe me nothing.”

* * *

Jaskier spent the day laying on the floor by the fireplace where he had slept the night before. Lilcopen had been kind enough to bring him a small stack of books. The young man had found a slightly less than convenient way of turning the pages using his thumbs and the base of his forefinger. 

“How can you not be bored?” Geralt asked. He finished mucking out the stable and went back into the house to check on Jaskier. The three outside had heard nothing from the bard. When Geralt found him, he was reading his second book. 

“Books are remarkable things, my friend. I’m stuck on the living room floor and yet I’m exploring the forests of somewhere called Britannia with an old man named Merlin. Rather interesting fellow, if not a bit creepy.” 

Geralt let out a breathy chuckle. “Good to see you’re still sane.” 

“If I  _ didn’t _ have the books I would be slipping a good deal,” Jaskier admitted. “I just want my fingers back. I’d be enjoying myself a good deal more if I could write my own things. No matter. Lili was saintly and brought me books.”

“You write your own stories?” Geralt sat himself beside Jaskier. 

“A few short ones here and there. I mostly write poems, however. Songs and the like. Bards have to be good at telling their own stories and ones passed down from storyteller to storyteller. I find writing stories in verse is much easier than writing them in prose.” 

“I’ve never been much good at telling stories.” Geralt tightened the leather strip holding his hair back. 

“Anyone can tell a story. Tell me one. What was your last payment before me?” 

“I hunt monsters and try to avoid the petty squabbles of men. I needed supplies, was low on money, and the job your father offered was the nearest one seeing as the next town was a week’s ride and no-one in this one had encountered any problems.”

“So what was this last monster?” 

“A simple Drowner.”

* * *

The two days passed slowly, but the more time Jaskier and Geralt spent together, the more they each thought travelling together wouldn’t be so bad. Jaskier was more talkative than any other person Geralt had ever met, but most of what he said was intelligent and pleasant enough to listen to. Geralt didn’t speak often, but when he did, Jaskier held onto every word like his life depended on it. 

“When do we leave?” Jaskier asked. He was now able to walk a short distance before his back gave him trouble. It was healing- and too slowly if you asked Jaskier. He was getting antsy to leave now that he could ride. A steady walking pace on horseback was no problem for him, anything faster than that for more than a few minutes was too much jostling for his back to handle. 

“After we eat,” Geralt said evenly. He was double checking his supplies and debated whether or not he should brew more of the healing potion for Jaskier. In the end, he decided it was better safe than sorry. If Jaskier didn’t use it with this injury, Geralt got the feeling that the human would be using it for a different one. 

Jaskier had spent the day before repacking the things he had in his bag before he was returned home. Clean clothes, his oils, a quill or two, a notebook, and a small box of charcoals. In the “secret” pocket inside the bag, a spare set of lute strings were safely tucked away. 

While Lilcopen made breakfast for the small group, Horic was packing food for their two travelers. The two newly freed slaves were elated at the idea of the house being their own. For years, they had worked the land together without any of the luxuries Jaskier’s father had demanded. For years they had been terrified of the chances of being whipped for a simple mistake; sleeping on dirt floors or in the ashes of the kitchen’s fireplace to keep warm in the cold and snowy winters. 

For the first time in their lives, they could sleep in feather filled mattresses with equally soft pillows. They could take warm baths instead of dipping themselves into the almost always freezing river. The two weren’t happy about their young friend’s pain and suffering, but they weren’t going to complain or turn down Jaskier pressing the Pankratz seal in wax at the bottom of a paper saying the house was now theirs. 

Geralt had written up the paper seeing as he was the only one on the property that could write for the time being. He melted the wax and helped Jaskier hold the stamper so he could press it hard enough with his damaged hand to leave the steady print. The paper was then tucked into a drawer for safe keeping. 

* * *

Geralt and Jaskier stood side by side, staring down at the lump of upturned soil where Jaskier’s father now rested. The young man’s feelings were mixed. He’d never have to deal with his father’s nonsense again, but his father was dead. He was free, but the last member of his family was dead. He had been sad when his mother passed. His father’s death brought him relief and he almost felt guilty over that fact. 

“I’m ready to go when you are.” Jaskier looked at Geralt. 

“Then let’s be off.” The Witcher nodded. The two men went back to their horses and were met by Lilcopen and Horic checking the saddles. Horic had secured the food he packed and Roach’s saddlebags were in place. Roach wasn’t highly pleased by the attention from someone other than Geralt, but the horse was being civil at least.

Horic and Lilcopen each gave Jaskier a gentle hug. Horic shook Geralt’s hand. 

“Don’t take this wrong way,” Jaskier started. “But hope to the Gods that we never see each other again.” 

Lilcopen giggled. “I understand exactly what you mean. I hope you find the dream you’ve been chasing for so long.” 

“Enjoy the beds,” Jaskier chuckled. 

“Thank you, Witcher, for taking him with you. He’s a flower that needs the sun and he’d wilt if he was here any longer,” Horic spoke quietly. “This is the best course for him, you know?” 

Geralt nodded, slowly. “He’ll be safe with me. Worry not.” He helped Jaskier onto his white and grey horse before mounting Roach. “I wish you both the best.” He bowed his head to the two. 

“Enjoy your freedom.” Jaskier waved with his bandaged hand. 

“And you yours,” Horic chuckled.

* * *

Just because Jaskier couldn’t play his lute didn’t mean he was musicless. The young man was almost constantly humming or singing to himself. And Geralt would be lying if he said the younger man had a bad voice. 

“I need my hands,” Jaskier whined after a while. “I have so many ideas.” 

“For music or writing?”

“Both. I don’t…” He groaned. 

“Give your hands two weeks and we’ll take the bindings off to see how you’re doing,” Geralt looked at Jaskier. 

The reins of Jaskier’s horse were tied to Roach’s reins so he didn’t have to try to guide his horse with his injured hands. With little to do and the breeze too strong for him to read one of the books Lilcopen had sneakily hidden away, he took to talking about that came to mind. Geralt took the constant chatter in stride and idly listened, commenting when he thought it fit. 

There were a couple of times when Jaskier’s talking became too much, but seeing as the man didn’t seem to have a lot of people to talk to, Geralt zoned out and let Jaskier keep going. Sometimes, Jaskier would lapse into a silence and Geralt would look around, checking for a sign of danger. The Witcher took Jaskier as a Canary in a mine: if he was talking, everything was fine; if he stopped, something was wrong. 

“I get to braid your hair, don’t I?” Jaskier asked out of the blue. 

“What?” Geralt squinted at the bard. 

“To get my fingers used to moving again. It’d be perfect practice to get them back up to speed. I mean, I don’t have to worry about breaking a string. The better my fingers are, the better and tighter the braids will be.” 

Geralt grunted but didn’t give a direct answer. 

Jaskier beamed. “Oh thank you! Thank you! I’ve been told I’m good at calming people by playing with their hair. Something about the hands of a musician being gentle and playful… Steady.”


End file.
